


In His Sights

by MischiefJoKeR



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Deer, Developing Relationship, Fawn!John, Fawnlock, Guns, Hunter!Moriarty, Hunters, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Voyeurism, fawn!Sherlock, johniarty, johnlock if you squint
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-01-18 07:14:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1419322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MischiefJoKeR/pseuds/MischiefJoKeR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John loved living with the Holmes' in their forest in Sussex. It was quiet, out of the way, and no one came to bother them. Well, usually, and frankly John was getting pretty bored of living a peaceful life anyway. He didn't expect this, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Close Encounters

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by an artwork I saw on Tumblr but can't find now oops. Multichap, still in the works, and I'm a lazy shit with too much to do.

“Sherlock!” John scolded, pushing through the brush to follow the younger buck. Even while scolding, he kept his voice into hushed tones. “Your brother will skin us if he knows where we’ve been!” 

“Are you going to tell him? That certainly wasn’t part of my plan!” Sherlock says back, voice low enough to almost be covered by the sounds his antlers make hitting the bark of the tree he was pressed against. He took a look over his freckled shoulder, the pale white pelt of his face hidden by the dark curled locks covering his head down his spine. His antlers stuck up at least forty-five centimeters upwards, majestic and clunky when most inconvenient. John scowled and ducked low behind another bush, looking through the partings of leaves. 

Fire, flickering in the distance. Shadows cast long over the short grass at the edge of the woods. The moorlands were just past this point, and it seemed a camp of humans made their base at that edge. From the talking it seemed to only be two or three of them, but even one was completely unusual for the secluded Holmes woods in a place called Sussex. 

“Let’s get out of here, Sherlock.” John whispered again. His brushed leaves from his short tan hair between his antlers, a more modest size and slightly lighter in color than his facial pattern. Only his cheeks and belly were marked with a lighter dusting of cream colored fur, the rest being the tanned color most common for their breed. Everything about him was common, really. 

Sherlock huffed a breath through his nose, eyes still locked on the flickers of fire in the distance. Laughter echoed from the campfire, the few shapes huddled around it and blocking the streaks of light over the grass. John said nothing; repeating himself would only make Sherlock more stubborn. Honestly he should have been a mule with his temperament. Sure enough within a couple minutes Sherlock backed away from the tree, looking at John across from him. “Okay,” He spoke before turning back into the woods. John shook his head and left his cover of brush and followed the taller man, watching the nettles under his feet even as Sherlock seemed to not mind. Once they could no longer hear the laughter or see any signs of the fire, John spoke up at Sherlock’s side. 

“Why must you insist on getting that close? I know hunters aren’t that common around here but whenever they do show up you find it’s a brilliant idea to see them!” 

“Honestly John, I’m not about to get myself shot. Getting a look at the enemy won’t hurt. If anything if I see them again I’ll know of the danger instantly.”

“You don’t want to see them again and even if you did I would hope you’d find it instantly dangerous.” John grumbled, arms crossing over his chest. Sherlock mumbled indistinctly to his side, walking their memorized path back to the small grove within the woods the family resided. As normal, Sherrinford and Margaret Holmes were asleep together under a thickly veiled shelter of green. Mycroft Holmes was nowhere to be seen, as was per usual. Sherlock knew which nights of the week he had to converse with other herds of assorted animals around the region about any danger. That was how he and John were able to get away so easily without being reprimanded like children, after all. “Get to bed, Sherlock, and for fuck’s sake, at least try to stay in bed.” John whispered sternly as he shifted forms: average height, average build— maybe a little stockier—for an adult buck, only retaining his fawnlike freckles on his cheeks and over one shoulder. A frankly embarrassing feature, as the other bucks grew up with sleek furs and angular patterns, while his was spotty over parts of his form and just adding to what they’d call ‘pudginess’. 

Sherlock wordlessly shifted to his own form, the spindly legs giving him an appearance more of a cast shadow than a real creature. Stunning; especially at this time of night with the starlight being the only thing to freckle his fur. John dodged the crunchy twigs that the wind blew in to their tiny camp to find his hideaway in a berry bush. He inhaled the homely smell of sweetness and grass, the closest thing to his home growing up that was likely a parking lot at this point. Sherlock had a hollowed tree to disappear into, collapsing in a gangly heap with a horrid sigh through his nostrils. John smiled faintly as his let his eyelids close. Even if he was a thistle in John’s behind, John owed him his life. He’d do everything in his power to protect him from further harm. 

Snapping of twigs made John’s eyes snap open and ears point to the sky. The moon was getting closer to the horizon, edges painted purple while the rest of the sky remained pitch black. His heart rate was kick-started as his thoughts came to him—noise, nearly dawn, everyone should be asleep, Sherlock. Sherlock was never asleep. Mycroft was coming back. Regardless he swallowed and craned his neck carefully through a few branches of his shelter, just enough to see their clearing, his eyes visible through bunches of leaves.

A leg stepped just in front of his bush. John’s breath caught. Deer in headlights was an actual emotion and he satisfied it through and through. He didn’t breathe, forced his heart to stop, and waited, prayed, that the Holmes family didn’t move a hair. He could feel his shoulders tensing and his limbs quaking. He wanted to run, but no. He had to stay still, not run like a coward. This was his home dammit, and if he moved it would only ruin things for everyone. Hushed voices came from above his hiding place, the boot near him moving across the grass to another set of footsteps approaching. 

“Moran, you walk like an elephant.” The voice was so low John could barely hear it, even with his ears frozen up and open.

“You’re the one making me bumble after you in the dead of night.” A deeper tone said, not as quiet. John nearly rolled his eyes until he saw the rifle in his line of vision. Even his eyeballs didn’t risk moving. 

“Dead of night? This is prime time, Moran.” The first bloke murmured, some brogue slipping on his tongue. “These woods are untouched and not even rangers keep counts here.”

“So there’s nothing, boss.”

“False, there’s plenty here that no one else will know is here. Do shut up now and get walking. We’ve got lots to clear before dawn.” John’s vision was going spotty from not blinking, but soon he saw the retreating legs, clad with heavy clothes with many pockets. Pale hands held wood-furnished weaponry. Black hair that practically disappeared against the sky of one of the retreating figures, while the other larger man—Moran—led a way out through the trees; right next to Sherlock’s den. John almost hoped the git had left his lodging and was safely away to not see this. 

John waited several minutes. The birds nearby began to chirp, signaling approaching morning. John took a deep breath and pulled himself out from the bush, shaking leaves away from his unimpressive antlers. His eyes immediately focused and he moved over to the hollow tree trunk, legs shaking under his weight as he easily crossed the distance of the field. Just as he got close enough to make out a shape within, said shape was coming out into the light.

“Jesus Sherlock,” John breathed, unable to keep the scratch from his voice as speaking still felt like such a threat. “Did you, you didn’t…” 

“No, John. They were just passing through. It seems that the others slept through it as well.”

“Hardly,” the posh voice joined in next to John, making him shift to the side. Mycroft wasn’t as tall as his brother but was more equally balanced: less bone for limbs and more bulky, even tubby over his belly like John. His fur wasn’t as dark as his brothers, going more to the auburn-ginger color, but still darker than John’s. “Dare I ask why John seemed to think you were behind this, brother, lest we cause a scene for mummy?”

“Please, you’ve conditioned John to believe whatever I do is a danger to your lives.” Sherlock sneered, his lips drawn back in a near predatory hiss. 

“Hold on now, Sherlock,” John’s brows knitted together. He looked back to Mycroft to avoid Sherlock dipping his head and giving him a sardonic eye roll. “Sherlock and I saw a human camp out in the clearing. We thought nothing of it, really.” 

“That close?” Mycroft frowned, his hooves scraping slightly at the ground below him. “I should have been alerted to this.”

“Nothing is really up that way except the moorland.”

“Well, that group of humans must move quickly if the others didn’t know of this either. I’ll send word for them to be on the watch. Stay close to camp until we see them carry on.” Mycroft turned his flanks slightly, preparing to leave before leveling his brother with a look. “I mean it, Sherlock. Men with guns won’t think you’re being adorably curious. They’ll think you’re dinner.” Mycroft strode away with as much confidence as possible for someone about to venture out into the night to be the messenger. He pushed back through the leaves and disappeared in the opposite direction of the hunters. John flicked his tail a few moments before risking a glance at Sherlock, who remained still.

“You know I don’t believe that.” John scolded. Sherlock opened his mouth to retort, but John silenced him with a bump to his shoulder and a clank of antlers. “Don’t reply, I’m not angry with you. I just worry. It was a bit close for comfort.”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock sighed, continuing to sound scandalized by the idea of behaving. 

“No chasing down hunters, period. You’ll be lucky if Mycroft lets you take a piss outside of camp.” John smiled and walked to the middle of the clearing. Staring at his bush he huffed. It’d be impossible to sleep with that adrenaline still pulsing through him. His tail twitched again, a normal tick with these sorts of things. It was back to pretending things were safe and normal. 

“Yes, I will. And then I’ll be allowed to frolic in the moors after I take a piss in his den.” Sherlock had hardly finished before John was laughing, shaking his head.

“Alright, good luck with that.” He went to the tree near his berry bush, rubbing against it for a moment before shifting back to his other form. Things were just so much more comfortable this way. He could actually feel the grass between his fingers and toes. Though it did take most of his fawnhood learning to shift and find the uses for the digits. As the sun came over the horizon the elders of the Holmes family left their den. Sherrinford stretched as the sun dappled through the lines of tree trunks and leaves. He and John got along well, talking of various areas they’d traveled and the plants in the nearby area. Sherrinford was immediately taken by the blonde buck when he’d suggested he chew on some clovers to get rid of a toothache that had made him irritable for days. Margaret was trickier, preferring to stay quiet or fret over her boys and how she missed other herds being closer for old-wives talks. John was sound-board often enough for Sherlock to indulge her, but she still had a Holmesian sense of when John was at the end of his rope and generally kept to herself or her husband’s side. 

It was a quiet life. It was safe and good and…well, there was always Sherlock. He felt his heartrate spike as he thought of the boot right in front of him, the lean calf covered in thick camouflage and cargo and a gun just screamed danger and god if he didn’t need that more. He wasn’t a young buck anymore, but those days had left him ages ago when mum was still around and his home wasn’t asphalt. He looked up from where he was making patterns in the twigs, leaves, and grass to lock eyes with Sherlock. At some point he had shifted too, his deep hazel blue eyes peeking through delicate lashes to hold John’s own blue captive. John bit at his bottom lip and did all he could think of without alerting the parents. He tilted his chin slightly, angling his antlers and making his eyes dart towards the exit of the enclosed camp. Sherlock smirked and was on his feet in a moment, slipping through the brush easily with only the tips of his antlers hitting branches. John stood and rushed after him, not paying attention if Margaret was questioning them.

He never felt more alive than when he was risking his life with Sherlock.


	2. Crosshairs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has to carry Sherlock back into the forest, and pray they aren't followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure when the next update will come, it's very late and I haven't gotten to starting chapter 3 yet. This'll probably be 4-5 chapters long

“John! JOHN!” Sherlock called and the man turned his head, a mouth full of grasses. He’d just stopped for a bite, really. Seems Sherlock hadn’t bothered to stop for boring things like food. “Come this way, quickly.” John chewed down the last of what was in his mouth and followed Sherlock, both of them back into their quadruped forms, across the field. They padded around for several minutes, and just as John went to speak, Sherlock stepped into his path to slow him. The taller buck lowered his head, John unconsciously following the motion to stay low, and the two of them looked out from around a boulder at the peak of a ridge.

“Sherlock!” John chided, and simply got a point of Sherlock’s antler under his front leg. He shushed the blonde, looking back down the ridge to see another make-do camp. It wasn’t hard to tell this one was recently left, smoldering ashes from a fire with plastics around it, remains from a burned lunch package.

“Want to check it out?” Sherlock said, not bothering to whisper. John grinded his teeth together, his head automatically turning to check all directions. It was a rather out-in-the-open field, the boulders being the only cover for several meters until light tree cover reappeared. The ridge itself wasn’t deep enough to hide anything, only making the hills seem more prominent over a mostly flat stretch of land.

“I’ve seen enough smouldering piles of ash, Sherlock.” John remarked, but stood straight as the other buck did and stepped down towards the abandoned camp. As anticipating, it was nothing spectacular. Obviously someone, or two someones, had been there within the hour. Burning their trash was done and then the fire stomped out, leaving a couple ashy steps away from the camp. Sherlock ducked his head, sniffing at the ground and brushing it with his hooves. He took in every inch of knowledge he could before standing back to attention.

“Well?” John asked, looking up at the dark haired buck. “Go on, then.”

“Two humans. One is considerably larger, bulkier, muscled. He stomped out the flames because he tracked the ash on his boots, very large even for a human. My feet aren’t even that big.” As if to reiterate, Sherlock’s hooves shifted on the ground. His human form was quite tall and required larger feet, it seemed. “Very stocky and sturdy then, to need that sort of balance. That and he had quite a large lunch if the remains of the packaging and amount of ash have anything to say.”

“But if there’s two of them, that’d be normal to have a lot of trash.”

“True but, from what we saw in the clearing, the other man was much smaller, probably didn’t eat much or if he did, took it with him. There’re no footprints from him but it’s obvious he sat here in the grass from the impressions.”

“So it is the same two from this morning,” John shuddered, thinking of the deep voice that must be the larger man Sherlock deduced. Yet they really knew nothing about the smaller of the two. John had only seen the back of his head with the black hair, the voice with some touch of an accent John hadn’t heard often, yet seemed familiar.

“Well, it is most probable. By this hour they could have taken the curve of the forest and ended up here for the daylight. Our kind doesn’t usually stay in the forest when it’s sunny, but going out into the middle of a field at noon isn’t common. They could eat undisturbed and upon heading back towards the forest they’d be able to spot anyone going to and fro.”

“Right.” John swallowed, looking as the ashes spread further as the wind shifted them, as well as Sherlock’s prodding. “That was encouragement enough for me to want to head back home. Enough adventure for an afternoon.” He dispersed his weight on his hooves, looking across to Sherlock. Sherlock rolled his eyes but gave a slight smile, turning himself back towards the tree line following the ridge. A shot rang out. John’s legs locked up and froze him in place. For a beat.

“Sherlock, run!” John was wearing blinders at this point. All he saw was the tree line straight ahead of him. His legs turned to jelly and yet carried him, sprinting as fast as he could. Another shot rang out, and hearing the crack along with it made his hooves dig into the ground and force a stop. “Sherlock!” John turned, seeing Sherlock stood, frozen in place, and then fall forwards. John rushed to turn and run towards him, blood rushing and clogging up any sounds reaching his ears. All he saw was red staining Sherlock’s coat, the buck trying to stay in his deer form futilely. John looked up, seeing two figures across the field and likely looking down a scope. He shifted forms, not caring if the change of blood flow made him teeter, hands grabbing onto Sherlock and hoisting him up. Balance was difficult at first, being on two legs and carrying the lanky buck, but he sprinted as fast as he could.

He didn’t even care, shifting that close to the hunters. He didn’t even care that he was doing a mad dash into the woods carrying his bleeding friend as he gradually got heavier. It was harder for them to remain in their buck forms in such pain. The bleeding could stop easier in human form. Or the damage could worsen in such occasion. His eyes snapped shut as he broke through the trees, leaves and branches scratching his skin and likely leaving red lines under his thick fur. Sherlock’s weight became full at that moment. John, mid step, tripped. The weight in his arms was too sudden to hold during his run. Sherlock groaned from where he was underneath John. The blond felt warm stickiness over his chest and forced himself back onto his feet.

Sherlock had his brows pinched together, eyes clenched shut, and a red hand over a spot just under his ribs. John looked, registered, and pushed it aside for the moment. He had to move, not panic. _Fight or flight. Flight. They could still be behind us. Get to better cover._

“Hang on, Sherlock.” John murmured, more for his own sake than his friend’s. Sherlock let out another groan, probably a form of acknowledgment that he’d been heard and pointedly finding it useless to waste the energy on comfort. John adjusted his hold, hooking an arm under Sherlock’s knees and the other around his shoulders. The brunette hissed at the angle it kept his wound at, but voiced no verbal complaint otherwise. No time for it. John started running again.

His vision cleared the more steps he took, no longer framed around the edges by panic and he could focus on more than what was directly in front of him. John’s breath started to become ragged, his eyes darting left and right. He lurched to the side, pushing through another small grove of brush. A moss-coated rock sat among a cluster of flowers and grasses, trees shadowing most of the area. It was small for a clearing, but it’d do. John fell to his knees, wincing at the shock it sent through his adrenaline-fueled system, and set Sherlock to lean against the stone.

“You stupid berk,” John breathed, seeing Sherlock’s face still contorted in pain, but at least it wasn’t giving him the ‘you idiot’ look. “Keep pressing, harder, come on.” John took Sherlock’s other hand and moved them into a better position over the buck’s chest. John could feel Sherlock’s heart thudding against his ribs, still feel the stickiness of blood around his fingers and drying to his chest. His deep blue eyes scanned around, spotting flecks of white among the green grasses and cursed at his luck.

 _Yarrow_ , his mind supplied and fingers began ripping bundles from the ground and rolling together the leaves and buds of flowers. He spit into his hands several times, continuing the press and molding it together before batting away Sherlock’s fingers. “Press this into it, I’ll find more.”

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock practically whined as though scolded, but lifted his hands. The wound was clotting, but slowly. John pressed the mush to the gunshot wound, wincing as Sherlock choked back a bark of pain. John shuffled on his knees, maneuvering Sherlock enough to see a second wound bleeding freely down his back. _At least the bullet went through, of course_. John crawled around on the floor, grass turning the ends of his light fur on his knees greenish. He repeated the process and pressed it to the entry wound on Sherlock’s back, eliciting another hiss. John’s fingers started to shake, then all the way up his arms from pressing. He fumbled above him, grabbing onto a tree branch to tear at the leaves. _It’ll have to do_ , he reasoned as he got a large leaf and pushed it to the wound, letting Sherlock lay back down, the leaf acting as a bandage. Locating another one, he brought it around to the front and moved Sherlock’s fingers before he could compress it too much and spread it away from the wound.

“Here, excellent. You’re gonna be fine, Sherlock.”

“I don’t _feel_ fine, John!”

“You’re not supposed to. You bloody stood there and got shot. Quit talking now, I need to think.”

“Silence me forever, then.” Sherlock’s antlers scraped over the green stone as he dropped his head back onto it, taking deep breaths. John shook his head, watching his friend’s face at least become more relaxed. The blood was still pumping and rushing through his ears A few more breaths and he could at least think for a moment. _Yarrow would help with clotting his blood…Ginger could help with the pain but, no, probably none for quite a while. He could hit fever in that case. It’d give him something to do instead of mouth off. Feverfew, then—_

He registered the crunch of grass. Forgotten. The press of cold metal to the back of his head was something impossible to avoid, though. His eyes widened, just staring at Sherlock, whose own half-lidded eyes opened and his mouth screwed into the best attempt at a scowl he could. At this distance John could see the fear in his eyes and the reflection of a man in them too.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting this.” The voice breathed, almost as a hum. John could almost feel the lilting accent rumbling through the other’s tone as he spoke. Sherlock’s eyes fell closed and John instinctively leaned forward, keeping his hands pressed firmly to the spot. The gun to his head shifted, the bottom of the barrel digging into John’s skull. He kept his eyes on Sherlock. “What are _you_ , then?”

“I’m a doctor.” John replied. The gun behind him shifted as the man let out a chuckle. Incredulous, then. Wasn’t every day the prey talked back, he figured.

“Of all the things I’d call you first that wouldn’t be one.”

“That one seemed pretty appropriate.” John scoffed. Blood no longer flowed freely down the other buck’s chest, the poultice doing its work. Sherlock’s breathing was leveling out and he only blinked his eyes open for a few seconds before closing them again. The pain was likely numbing him. He needed shelter, water, and the other herbs John kept stocked near the Holmes camp. John wasn’t even really a doctor but he knew how to take care of toothaches so he was as qualified as a deer could be.

“No, no…that’s…” The man breathed, another almost giggle escaping him. John’s stomach flipped. “Are there more? More like…like you two? Surely not all can do this cute little trick…”

“I’ve not met all deer. Have you met all man? Do they all point guns at their doctors?” John returned, tilting his chin, having to resist turning around. Even the slightest flinch could be his last, he had to remember. He hadn’t faced this amount of panic for his life since fleeing his home those years ago. His forest in flames, machines around smelling of diesel and smog. Family splitting off in different directions, his home crushed under tires, the asphalt of roads under his hooves as he journeyed here. It couldn’t just end like this, though it seemed fitting he’d die thinking of medicine as he friend quite possibly bled out in front of him.

“Maybe some of the men I know do.”

“Disgusting.”

“John,” Sherlock murmured, and John’s focus flickered back. Sherlock’s eyes were dark, glassy, yet hard. It was his “shut up face”, as John learned. For once he seemed to agree. The man could get bored and leave them be. Or he could get bored and finish them off. At least John wouldn’t reduce himself to begging.

“Ah, it speaks too. Nasty lookin’ spot there. My friend is usually a better shot than that.” The man chimed, making John grind his teeth. His nose wrinkled at the memory of the panic he felt seeing Sherlock fall. Now it was just fury, pushed down into his gut like the poultice pushed into the hole in his friend’s chest. “Need a hand, doctor?”

“Your hands seem rather occupied, nurse.” The man barked a laugh, causing John to flinch as the barrel of the gun pressed harder just at the base of his skull and neck, before the pressure was gone. He could hear the metal and wood-polish shifting as the weapon was—no, holstered somewhere. He’d put it aside? John gulped. The grass rustled around him, the boots taking steps until he felt the hunter to his side, rocking on his heels and leaning over. Sherlock risked a look over, managing a weak glare, before looking to John. Oh, so that was the sensation of his fur prickling, he was the one being watched. His face was set in stone and his eyes locked forward. He really was resorting to stay a deer in headlights.

“I suppose I’ll leave you to it then, Doctor John.” The man clicked the consonants on his tongue. John peered up, only the slightest tilt of his chin once more signaling the shift. The man was staring down at him, a toothy grin on his face. His eyes were dark like the blood drying over John’s hands and fur, hair just as black as the sky from the night before. The trees cast their shadows over his round face and yet managed to make it sharp and angular, devastatingly so, accentuating the stubble covering his jaw. John saw that the man was studying him as well, though his eyes didn’t have to go far as John was kneeling enough that viewing most of his front from above would be difficult. The man pressed his lips back together in a falsely-sweet smile, dragging a finger up the length of John’s right antler before taking his paces out of the clearing. The trees around them shifted. The steps quieted. The sound of birds returned and John finally allowed himself to breathe and let his shoulders drop.

“We need to get you out of here.” John sounded winded even as he starting to get up. Sherlock reached out and grabbed his shoulder, pressing down.

“The other one, John.” He said, looking around at the tree line with eyes bleary. “They’ll be near. Waiting for us to…to head back. They do this, remain silent and hidden somewhere above.”

“Don’t be stupid Sherlock.” John scoffed, finally getting his feet out from under him, he rose shakily. “Somewhere, at least. Near the brook, you need water and something to help the pain and fever. I can’t let you get sleep until you have that.” John moved Sherlock’s arm around to his back, one hand pressing on the entry wound and the other still under his ribs for the exit. “And you need sleep, twat. After some walking.”

“Mm…nearest stream is to the east. Where are we?”

“Haven’t the slightest, since I was running like a right prat carrying a bigger prat.” John got Sherlock’s feet under him, though he certainly didn’t help. “Come on, walk. I have you, it can’t be too far if you know the way.”

“My smell has always been better than yours, John.”

“Sure, and it has nothing to do with the fact that even when you keep talking, I can hear the running water.” Sherlock mumbled and cursed under his breath, but let John keep an arm around him and walk him through the brush. John shook his head at their luck, but kept his eyes on the treetops just in case. The luck was sure to run out sooner rather than later.


	3. Tracked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets out of the camp, away from a complaining Sherlock. Finding the tracks of the forest's assailants wasn't his intention, nor was it his to be tracked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this was very late, it's been in the works for quite a long time, slowly making progress to a good stopping point. I'm planning this to be 5-6 chapters long, so get ready for some shit next time

Needless to say, Mycroft Holmes could smell a lie a mile away and a lie would never be good enough to explain how his brother had a bullet go through him. He was hardly pleased, ordering the two of them to remain in camp. Especially John, since he “trusted the doctor to have common sense for the both of them”.  John had fibbed about the meeting with the hunters in the grove, and by fibbing he meant pretending it never happened.

Sherlock behaved like a child on a good day. His bad days were constant while he was trapped in his den, grassy piles for pillows and a constant supply of Yarrow and berries by his side. He whined about doing nothing. He whined that the leisure would make him fat like Mycroft. He whined about John being obsessive. He whined about his mother being obsessive when John needed to get away. He whined about whining. It was a test of John’s mental strength and was unsurprised that Mycroft’s meetings with other forest dwellers became even more frequent (though he did have good cause to do so).

John needed a break. Sherlock was healing slowly but it was exactly what a wound of that caliber needed. Sherlock not sitting still didn’t help, and John couldn’t exactly restrain him all hours of the day. He’d whine about that, then. Instead he pleaded with Sherrinford. The Father was surprisingly close to his son, both soft spoken to strangers and a little unconventional, to say the least. Whereas Sherlock would get fed up and bored with what his mother spoke of, he always lent an ear for his father. It was simple enough to get the two talking and take a much-needed solace out into the forest.

The air was somehow fresher and lighter outside of the enclosed camp. As much as he enjoyed a good lie-in on a nice day, something about walking through the crisp forest was more invigorating than he remembered. Tailing Sherlock made the oxygen a drug, something he needed in lungfuls. Now, he could get his fill and feel dizzy with contentment, birds chirping and sun coming through the larger tree gaps. He took the time to sprawl in the late summer grass and catch the warmth of the sun. With another deep breath he stretched his human-like hands above his head, to the sides of his antlers, and let the backs of them be tickled in the overgrowth. The sigh escaped him in a great exhale, letting his eyes slip shut and his shoulders ease. A good beginning to an afternoon, if he did say so himself.

The ambiance of chirping birds and foraging mammals came to a sudden silence. John’s nose and mouth screwed up, brows furrowing, heart in his chest starting to thump harder. The birds didn’t usually lie. _Predator nearby. Don’t make a sound._ Yet he couldn’t just lay there, belly exposed in the open, could he? With as much care as possible he rolled onto his knees, glad to not have a leaf to crunch underneath his weight. His eyes scanned the floor, previously alive with small paws of critters and now empty. He had the urge to crawl into a hole, not to come out until someone came to fetch him, his prey instincts thundering through his veins. The other part wanted to stand his ground, not unlike a fool, make noise to scare off a predator unused to a challenge. Honestly he hadn’t the slightest idea what he was thinking.

Footsteps soon came. Not the tiny pitter-patters but actual steps carrying weight and forcing the greenery down underneath them. John’s limbs quaked. Half wanted to scuttle and hide and the other were trying to move, flinch, something. When he saw a flash of gold between tree branches and a light crunch, the prey factor won. John’s head ducked and he held his breath, eyes wide. Gold turned to a dirty blond, covering the surface of tanned skin, square jaw, and razor-sharp eyes facing forwards. John’s face formed a scowl as he saw the shorter form bobbing behind him, raven-colored hair the only thing visible of him from over the brush. _They’re still bloody here._

The two continued walking. John kept holding his breath. His ears flicked forwards and back, trying to hear anything else. The steps were no longer audible. Taking a breath of much needed air, he shimmied out from his cover. The path in front of him was hardly a path, barely treaded on and still mostly grass. The branches were higher though, Sherlock’s antlers probably still wouldn’t touch them, and it was as close to a human trail there could be. John frowned, propped onto his knees to watch the retreating figures.

A thought came to him as he saw the forms of the men disappearing under the tree cover. Following that would lead them into the dense section of the woods again, true, but it would cross the stream and be much closer to the dens than any would like. Hunters were smarter now. Sherlock was right they lurked in trees waiting for the forest life to walk beneath them. They’d be smart enough to know what the creek would be used for. He swallowed, even as his mouth went dry. He could easily see the two stumbling across the den, where Sherlock was laid up and could hardly move. Sherrinford and Margaret, either asleep or not having the dexterity to flee the firing range quickly enough.

He rose up to his bipedal feet, watching the copse the hunters vanished into. He wet his lips, starting to walk after them. It was odd, walking down the path made for taller creatures. John’s heart started beating faster, the prey within him wanting to take off. Another part of him wanted to push forward, like a soldier, a survivor. That was reassurance enough. He was a survivor. He wasn’t risking the Holmes’s lives for his own. Living by his own on the road wasn’t going to happen. His steps started getting faster, but the pads of his feet kept him quieter than hooves would have. He could almost feel himself start to canter in a weird half-run on human legs. It was nothing compared to that full on sprint he had to burst into earlier that week, thank Christ. With an inhale, John prepared himself for such.

Walking on the tips of his toes was probably dangerous, considering his balance wasn’t perfect with the offset weight of his horns. The grass underneath him was soft and gave with no crunch as he made out the backs of the men ahead of him. They were speaking, about twenty yards ahead. His ears rotated over his head, focusing in on the sounds.

“Still not much here, boss.” The lower voice of the blond murmured.

“As agreed, there must be _something_ around here.” The other hunter spoke, exasperation evident in his breathy tone. John’s nose wrinkled at the memory of the voice much closer to his ears. He leveled his stance back onto his feet, steps more solid than the quiet tip-toes. Even his tail flicked back in forth in curiosity.  The camp was relatively nearby, not terribly close, but close enough to make John get closer to the pair of hunters. _Do I even have a plan for this?_ He thought to himself as he was closer to ten meters behind the intruders. _I could just…_ He inhaled, eyes moving to the trees surrounding them, the quiet of the forest, and any gaps between them. A few steps ahead of him was a parting in the brush, weaving around through thick pines and brambles.

“Well you said you saw ‘em head off the other direction yesterday. We’re just making a random gue—“ John didn’t listen to the rest of the words, though perhaps he’d completely stopped speaking when he made a dash through the bushes. The branches and leaves clattered into each other, raising noise in the deep silence of the forest. He breathed normally through his nose, feeling the adrenaline spiking through him as he run turned into a mad dash. More snapping of twigs behind him signaled that yes, the hunters had heard him. He took a turn between wide oaks with thick trunks, hidden for precious seconds before his feet went from under him.

John’s throat coughed out the air his lungs held as his back hit the slope. The tiny dip in the earth tore his unbalanced feet out from under him during the turn, now causing him to slip and roll twice down the crevice. He went to take a breath and got a mouth full of water. He sat up with a sputter, spitting out the water from the slough underneath his hands and knees. Another crunch of twigs from above him sounded off. Hardly time to recover from the fall, he propelled himself forward and continued running down the brook.

Splashes and echoed voices came from further down, but John found a break in the slope to climb back up into the woods. Heart hammering, he moved along forwards, winding around a random path and dripping water in his wake. The sounds of the creek and men died off shortly, and he let himself take deep pants of breath. He shook his head, letting droplets of water slide out from his thick hair and the ends of his ears. With a deep inhale and sigh, John dropped to the grassy floor of where he found himself. He leaned his back against another massive tree trunk, his antlers scratching the bark. The breeze went through the gaps of trees, making the water over his flesh chill. The chirping of birds slowly reappeared as John let his eyes slip shut, heartbeat going from hard thuds to a steady rhythm.

 

John’s eyelids fluttered open when a beam of sunlight managed to blind him. Navy blues looked around the forest floor and the tree line, making out the colors of dusk in the sky. Lips screwed up into a scowl. How had he managed to doze after that exertion? And the danger of it all! He felt as though he’d lay awake for nights on end thinking of how near death he’d danced. Yet he fell asleep, under a kilometer from the dangers plaguing the woods. He pressed back against the tree, getting his feet from under him to stand. His ears flicked forwards and back, searching for other sounds. Birds were quiet, probably turned in for the evening to hide from large predators.

Sherlock would be—Okay, maybe Sherlock’s parents and _maybe_ Mycroft would be wondering where he had gotten. A curse flew out from his mouth, even under his breath. He had to retrace frantic steps to the camp. With a sniff in the air John took a first step out from the clearing, antlers clicking against some overgrown branches. The creak of branches above him sounded off in the –

His ears moved upwards. No wind tickled at his fur, then…

They rotated, and his head followed. Up in the boughs of a tree, nearly directly across from the one he took rest underneath; he could see the detailed leather of a boot, a calf, another bent knee. The gun in his hands was lowered to the forest floor, but his eyes were piercing enough as the end of a barrel or bullet could be. John felt his heart seize, and his legs become rooted into the ground. Seconds dragged by until John could see the hunter smile.

“Gotcha.” He sang, his voice higher than John could imagine. The buck let out the breath he’d been holding for far too long, taking a tentative step back. The hunter raised his weapon on him. “Nuh-uh, stay put, dear.” He rumbled, swinging his legs over the branch he was seated upon. John clenched his teeth and remained stiff, watching as the man lowered himself to the grass, gun trained on the doctor the whole while. John swallowed, keeping his eyes locked with the hunter as he approached. He hadn’t paid any attention to the man before, considering he was studiously ignoring him to treat his friend. From this distance the man was just around his own height, minus the antlers anyway.

“This is a turn up. Thought you got away, hm?” He shifted his hold on the weapon, moving it away from John slightly, but enough to still keep him apprehensive. “Was just killing time, really.”

“I’m leaving.” John states rather suddenly. The hunter laughs.

“You’re _John,”_ He used the pointer and middle of his fingers to imitate quotations. “I’m Jim. And you’re not leaving. Unless you’d like to show me your camp.” John’s lips tightened and his brow furrowed. “Well of course, deer don’t live alone. That fifteen-pointer with you must be around somewhere. Few others, probably. Does are off the record, though. Got a bit too many offenses to get taken out over somethin’ like that.”

“You’re not going to find a camp.” John sneers, keeping his eyes trained on the hunter’s. “My friend and I are travelling.”

“Oh dear please, save me your lies. You already have a pocket full’a ‘em.”

“It’s not a lie and I don’t have pockets.” John retorts, making the hunter—Jim—snort. “I’m from further north.”

“You don’t sound like a Londoner, or Bristol for that fact.”

“You sound far enough away from where you’re from.” John rebuts. He still can’t place the accent the man uses, but it’s definitely not London. He’d passed through there long enough from home.

“If you’re travelling, odd that you’d stay here for over a week, isn’t it?”

“Not when he’s recovering from being shot.”

“Pity, lived did he? Moran rarely misses. Apparently he was off quite a bit.” Jim raises his weapon on John, leveling it at his chest. “Just because we know how to shoot wildlife doesn’t mean we can’t shoot men. Rather similar on the inside, we are.” He takes a few steps forward. John inhales but remains on his feet, steadier than he’s ever been as a biped, and waits until the cold steel touches his ribs. “Seems very similar.”

“Stop the small-talking and keep moving.” John lowers his chin, intensifying his glare at the man his height. “We don’t need to have this quarrel.”

“I was rather enjoying the banter, bucky.” Jim hummed, the barrel of the gun trailing down from his ribs to his soft belly. John inhaled and took a step back as the barrel threatened to move lower. He really didn’t trust a weapon there, vital point or not. Jim’s face twisted into another grin. “Fine, we’ll play again another day. Scuttle, little one.” He nudged at John with the end of his gun, prompting John’s further steps backward. “Catch you later!”

“No, you won’t.” John sneered. His heart starting to beat harder, instincts reared their head. With a quick shift to his shorter buck form, John charged, his muzzle colliding with the hunter’s side. Jim gave a startled ‘oomph’ and fell to his knees, doubled over. John turned tail and sprinted back into the thicket, weaving around as quickly and erratically as possible, leaving no chance Jim could follow him back to the camp.

His hooves slowed just at the outer rim of their territory. Catching his breath, his head lowered as he passed by Mycroft outside the clearing.

“Doctor, where have you been?” _Shit,_ John sighed. No escaping the parliament now.

“I was out looking for more bundles of herbs for Sherlock.” John lifted his snout again, barely high enough to make it to Mycroft’s own. The tawny-toned buck sniffed through his nose loudly, some habit from his childhood, according to Margaret.

“Returning empty-handed and quite late, apparently.”

“I took rest in a field. Quite relaxing, if you’re looking to try it out.” Mycroft’s ears lifted in surprise, the only indication he took the message in any snark. John treaded through the bushes to the camp, sighing as the familiar scents swirled around. Sherlock was lazing and looking nearly in-pain while speaking with his mother. His head lifted as John entered, eyes narrowing and ears flicking back and forth in some silent message. It could have been _welcome home_ or _what happened?_ And either way, John shook his head in answer, burrowing himself in the bush he claimed as his den. He could hear Mycroft stepping into the camp some time later, speaking with the other three members of his bloodline. The words faded out to John, ears tuning out the noise and letting his eyes fall shut.

He really shouldn’t miss being so close to death another time.


End file.
